A Room With A View
by unicornshoes
Summary: Time is eating at my insides, like a tapeworm. I want this session to be over. I’m sick of Dr. Mann, and all her lies and questions. She’s looking at me again, shaking her head, an attempt to assure me that everything is okay. What the fck? Nothing is ok.
1. Chapter One

**A Room With A View**

**Chapter One**

It's weird how rehab facilities have silly names such as 'Sandy Ridges Rehabilitation Center'. Especially ironic was the fact that Sandy Ridges was neither by a ridge or anything resembling sand. I supposed it's a nice feature though, that way when my friends call my cell , my voicemail can tell them I'm at Sandy Ridges, and they'll probably think I'm off on a lavish vacation.

Not here, in one of those all-white facilities that always smell like bleach and crayons. Nope, they'll all think I'm living up the rock star life on some beach, sluty girls in tiny bikinis hanging on my every word.

My palms are sweaty, and my sweater smells stale and the couch in the rec room where I'm sitting, is way too plasticy for my standards. The room is pretty much empty, at this time in the afternoon. All the other 'guests' here are in group therapy now, except for a thin, mousy girl in the corner and an old man sitting six inches from the blue television screen. Man, that guy has a horrible swirl comb over.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Joey talking to the plump receptionist, a frail looking red head. He looks like hell; dark circles, and bags under his eyes, his mouth a tight line as he signs some more paperwork. I feel bad for him, Jesus, I'm not even his goddamn biological son. And yet he is still taking care of me, helping me.

Sure, Joey was pissed when Mr. S called and told him the coke addict I've become. But, he never illustrated his anger to me. In fact, when he met me at the airport, the only thing showing on his face wasn't anger, or regret, but empathy. Joey's such a nice guy, Angie's lucky to have him as a father. Then again, I guess I am too.

I can't help but laugh to myself in spite at how my real dad, if he was still alive, would react to this. I'd be dead, literally. Chills run up and down my spine. It's like even though the bruises have all healed, there still there. And I can feel them itching and pricking at my skin. Like, it's my dad's sick way of forcing me to remember him. I hate it.

This rec room, mostly occupied on visiting days, has a large TV in the corner of the room, in front of it a large square of industrial carpet. It's on the first floor, across from the cafeteria. Down the hall are numerous offices, where shrinks analyze and sum up your whole existence into the thin pages of spiral notebooks.

The dorms or whatever, are on the second floor, divided by age and sex. Wendy, the head daytime nurse who gave us the tour, gave me a look when she mentioned that guys and girls aren't allowed into each other's dorms. It was like she just expected me to be a sex addict or something. I was tempted to shove in her face that I was only at Sandy Ridges because it's the only goddamn place that'll take my health insurance, but I stay quiet.

Adjacent to the rec room is the 'Quiet Room', where you have to be absolutely silent while in there. I peeked into it as Joey and Wendy continued ahead of me. The 'Quiet Room' sort of resembles a classroom. It's filled with rows of desks, and those multi-colored metal chairs. Only a few people where in there when we walked by, a heavier set girl and, seemingly, her anorexic counterpart. They giggled when I walked by, and, being the basturd that I am, I smirked back at them before running to catch up with Joey and Wendy.

That old man flinched, and a knowing expression dawned on his, like he just realized the movie he was watching was over and the screen was blue. He rubbed his eyes and slowly stood up, arching and cracking his back with pop that made me gag. And he left the rec room swiftly, heading toward the downstairs men's room.

The mousy girl in the corner looks up at me, her eyes leaving her book for the first time since I came in. She's staring at me with intense eyes, her rectangular glasses resting in the bridge of her nose. I know what she's doing, she is trying to read me, but she's out of luck. Sorry love, I'm not an open book.

I'm seventeen years old and stuck in a mental rehab facility for the next sixty days. I want so bad to be on the tour again. To be playing gigs every night, guzzling all the free beer I can stomach. The sluty girls would hang on my every word, but I'd ignore them and look for that one girl.

That one girl at the shows that looks like she could careless if the band on stage died, right in front of her. The girl whose there so her trashy, drunk friend doesn't have sex with some old, greasy man. Man, I'd spot that girl and sweet talk her till she was convinced I was a great guy and we'd head back to my room. She'd forget her friend and we'd fuck all night.

I'm an asshole. My mother would be so ashamed of me. Heck, she probably is, if you believe in God and heaven and all that other shit. I'm not too religious, though.

Hanging on the wall is this obnoxious sign, a list of rules. I'm enticed to laugh at it, but I don't. Everyone is too serious at this goddamn place. The list is your basic loony bin clichés:

One. No pens, glass, razors, scissors, or any other sharp object not approved by the head nurse.

Two. All meals must be eaten in the cafeteria, and your tray checked before being thrown out.

Three. All guests must adhere to their individual appointment and group appointment times.

Four. Only PG and G movies are to be played in the rec room.

Five. Visitors are allowed on Monday, and Friday, 2:00pm till 8:00pm

Six. No Soft Drinks allowed.

Seven. Help your friends, if you see something, tell one of the staff members ASAP

Eight. Tobacco Smoking is permitted only on the smoking porch

"Television. Blue. Damn it. Fuck."

I jerked my eyes from the poster to the tiny girl, bending over to shut off the TV. She turns around to see me staring at her and give a shy smile, like she forgot I was there.

"Hey…" She mumbles, and shit, she's walking towards me. I swallow the spit in my mouth, I really don't feel like talking to her or anyone. Her hair is dark brown, almost black and tied with ribbon at the base of her neck.

"Why you here new kid? Try and kill yourself? Possession?" Her voice was low and official sounding, the kind you heard on the background of skin care commercials. She was tiny and she resembled a bunch or right angles, as placed her hands on her non-existent hips.

I didn't answer, mostly because I didn't want to say it out loud and secondly because, frankly, it wasn't any of her goddamn business.

She laughed and it came out airy. "Oh, you're the kind of kid whose above all this and won't talk? Right?"

Her plaid pajama pants were cut off exposing her bony ankles and her t-shirt was rolled up to expose her white midriff. She was the poster child for eating disorder kids. I looked away and closed my eyes.

I want to go home. I don't want to live here. I want to take a hit of coke and gargle mountain dew, till all I can do is see and not even think, just see. I want Ellie and Manny to feel bad for putting me through this. To just feel horrible, for them doing the 'right thing', like rule number seven out of thirty here at Sandy Ridges. I want to know that someone back home, at Degrassi, doesn't think I'm a washed up basket case on coke. But, I don't think anyone doesn't think that.

I'm looking at her again, but not at her face or her chest or anything but her tongue. It's red, like vibrant red, like she just ate a popsicle or sucker or something. And it's flapping around in her mouth, curving out the sounds of the words she speaking that I'm ignoring. When she says a word with an 's' her red tongue does this twitch against her teeth. She has a lisp, but it's not funny. Not to me at least, and I don't know why.

"My name is Mayson. And you can only ignore this place for so long…" I like the way she pronounces her name. With the weird 's' sound. But, I don't tell her because I think she'll get offended. Mayson is walking away now, out of the room, a nice looking nurse escorting her to the hallway where the shrinks are.

I entwine my fingers on my lap, as if I'm praying, but I'm not. I can hear her cruddy looking flip flops flipping and flopping on the linoleum floor down the hall. That's how quiet it is.

My eyes squinted shut, and I wonder what Ellie is doing. She's probably with her college boyfriend, eating sushi for lunch with him. Ellie probably forgot all about bi-polar, coke addict Craig, poor me. Then, there is Manny, whose probably moved on to another boy toy already. One that's smart and going places, a boy that Emma helped her pick out.

Jesus, Emma.

I haven't seen her, talked to her, in forever. Excluding peachy small talk and glimpses here and there during my last trip to Degrassi Street. Guilt is a horrible thing; Emma had made vegetable lasagna the night before I left to Joey. It would be just her, she assured me on the voice mail message. Emma wanted to talk. I had ignored it, too pissed off at everyone to do anything but that. I wonder what she had to tell me….

Somebody tapped my shoulder. I knew it was Joey, I could smell his cologne, the old spice kind. He cleared his throat. And I resisted the urge to hug him.

"Hey, Craig, everything is all set. Make sure you take your medication and get better."

Wasn't that what I was here for? To take my crazy medicine and 'get better'. I wondered if Angie would know about this. Know what a stupid, idiot, fucked up brother she had. And I wonder if she'd care, if she'd make me a 'Get Well' card or if Joey would let her come visit me.

Joey bent over, so he was eye level with me. Tears were fronting I his eyes and I almost wanted to cry myself. I held it in, though. He placed his hands on my shoulders, and gave them a reassuring squeeze.

And while he said goodbye, all I could think about was this smelly black hoodie I was wearing . I wonder if Joey smelt it's stale bar stench too. Probably.

He kept looking back at me as he walked past the front reception desk, and out the wide glass doors. I stared at his retreating back for a moment, and then that same nice nurse who escorted Mayson, showed up and said my name softly. I nodded at her and followed her up the stairs, throwing my backpack over my shoulder, and picking up my guitar with my other hand.

* * *

"It's a room with a view, we're one of the lucky ones. Some guests just have windows that showcase the back parking lot." A quiet voice spoke, interrupting my non-existent thoughts. I rest my face against the cool, clear glass, eyeing the front walkway with all it's benches and flowers and briskly white sidewalk.

"Yeah…"I trail off, not sure if there is anything else to say.

My voice was a bit strained sounding, the boy didn't seem to notice though. I watched him carefully, as he walked towards me. He wore jeans with holes in them, the kind you buy at expensive stores, and a long sleeve Newport High track tee. His hair was brown and shaggy. He looked to wholesome to be a patient here, let alone, my roommate.

"Craig Manning, the musician, right?"

"Yeah, how'd you know that?"

I scratched at my head, confused. I felt somewhat more at ease, now that my stink black hoodie was off and in my dirty laundry bag. The lukewarm air coming from the vent on the ceiling gave me the goosebumps.

The boy laughed, just a tad bit and held up an index card. "Your bio-card. It helps break the ice." The boy shrugged and looked to the side.

That made sense, I thought. So, I nodded my head and continued to gaze out the window, wondering why the fountain on the front lawn ran dry.

"I'm Forrest, by the way. Staying for one more month, hopefully. Here because I had an O.D. On purpose."

And before I could stop my nosey, rude mouth, I asked why.

Forrest ran his thumb across the metal window sill, not meeting my gaze for a moment. Then, he surprised me by smiling a dark smile.

" I caught my twenty-something step mom fucking my girlfriend."

My mouth dropped; shit, that didn't happen everyday. Forrest mumbled something inaudible that sounded like 'whore' but I wasn't sure.

"Why are you here?"

"Isn't it on that stupid card?"

It came out sarcastic and I half regretted opening my mouth.

"It just says addiction, care to elaborate?"

I scuffed my toe against the floor. Shit.

"It's the cliché musician's story. Coke made me feel, I don't know, it just…"

My voice trailed off because my throat became dry. And I couldn't talk and I just felt like sleeping. Forrest understood though, because he nodded his head.

"Y'know what Craig? You can have the bed by the window, usually the guest whose been here longer gets it, but I want you to have it."

I shook my head. "Why?"

Forrest spoke while crossing the room, sitting on the bed closest to the door frame; there are no actual doors to the dorms.

"Well, maybe the view will help you write a damn good song, I'll hear a few months from now, on the radio. And you can tell me thanks than."

Forrest's words were jumbled and didn't make too much sense, but I understood him. He turned the TV on that hung from ceiling in-between the two beds. And PBS came on, the guys with an afro painting another mountain landscape.

I looked out the window and once more and got lost in the blooming flowers and guests soaking up the springtime sunshine, leaning against the hard looking, wooden benches.

And upon eyeing the road past the green grass, I was reminded of my life outside these walls. My perfect life that had crumbled at my feet in less than a week.

I didn't want a room with a view anymore. I wanted my life back and I'll be damned if I don't have it by the end of my stay at Sandy Ridges.

* * *

(A/N: Any good, I've spent forever writing this. Review! And don't worry, some Degrassi characters will pop up, more importantly their names start with an 'e'.) 


	2. Chapter Two

A Room With A View

Chapter Two

Disclaimer: I don't own any Degrassi characters, or anything affiliated with Epitome. The rest, besisdes a few things is mine.

In Dr. Mann's office there is giant painting hanging on the wall behind her desk. And every time she asks me a question, and I look up to meet her gaze, I end up staring at it this piece of artwork. This large, over the top, out of place painting annoys the shit out of me. Like just now, she's still talking and all I can think about is how much that ugly painting probably cost.

She's re-asking some retarded question about what my mom's favorite thing to cook was, as if I didn't hear her the first time. Why does she want to know that? Dr. Mann is always asking random questions like that. Considering that and the fact that her hair is short, and a vibrant shade of plum and her clothes are eccentric and don't match, I question her credibility as a psychiatrist.

I rub my temples with my index fingers, and even though I'm staring at the stupid painting, I can see the movement of Dr. Mann leaning forward, watching me massage my forehead. I can feel myself sweating, even though the air condition is cranking from it's spot below the wide window. The blinds are shut.

"Craig, are you… nervous?" Her voice is light and warm, soothing almost, like she's just one big pillow or something. Man, my way with words is lacking since I've been here, at Sandy Ridges.

Three days and counting. Three days, zero visits and one phone call, from Joey. He wanted to know if I need my own toothpaste. Nothing heartwarming or motivating in conversation about brands and flavors of toothpaste.

Personally, I prefer "Kiss me mint"; mostly because the color purple excites me and secondly, I want to be kissed real bad. Ellie was the last girl I kissed, and she hates me now. So I don't want to be kissed by someone that hates me. But, in my state of being right now (a fucked up loser), sharing some love with a girl wouldn't be so bad. Not all the girls here a drop dead ugly. Soo….

Jesus, Ellie hasn't called yet, not that she said she would, I just assumed… Ah, why do I care?

Yesterday, Mayson was blasting some scene, Mtv band in the rec room. Panic! At The Dance or something of the like. For the most part, they sucked. But, one line stood out, 'Sweetie, you had me.' For lack of originality and any better words, I want to tell Ellie that. Over the phone or in person or whatever. I want to hear her laugh and than they say something smart, with lots of big words that I'd have to look up in the dictionary. That'd be nice.

"Craig, are you okay?"

It feels really stuffy in here; Dr. Mann's office is located on the first floor and on the second floor above, I hear stomping. Like someone's having a helluva time dancing their heart out in the dorms.

"Dr. Mann?" My voice surprises me, it sounds so calm, like everything in my life has been and will always be just peachy.

She leans foreword, bending her elbow against her desk, her right hand cradling the left. Her eyebrows are raised her small ears perked up. Silly Dr. Mann; she thinks I'm going to say something amazing, like some great autobiography of my emotions. On the contrary:

"May I open the blinds?"

I don't think I've ever seen a face fall that far, become that disappointed in just five measly words. That's most definitely a record. And if I was the type of person who wrote all my feats down in a notebook, that'd definitely go in. Bill Watski, who's in my group therapy sessions, that's what he does. After ever meal he writes down everything he ate and how he survived and didn't choke on anything. Just stupid crap like that.

Dr. Mann nods her head yes, while looking defeated. The brown leather cow of a couch creaks when I stand up, except I hear it as a moo and I start laughing. Now, I'm laughing absurdly at what seems to be nothing at all and Dr. Mann thinks I am even more crazy than she originally suspected. I cross the oriental rug, over to the window and pull on the string. The grey, plastic blinds shift upwards, rattling against the glass. Slowly, they're pulled up.

The sunshine makes my eyes tingle and I blink a couple of times before adjusting to the warmth and brightness. I head back to the couch, sit and hear another creak that reminds me if a 'moo'. And I'm laughing. Hysterically.

"Craig, what's so funny?" As soon as she says this, I stop laughing and become mute, now staring at the dumb painting again.

"I don't know." I mumble, rubbing the toe of my shoe against the rug.

The painting is this picture of a house. Just a plain simple home, that a nice family probably lives in. The house is white with dark green shutters, the windows glowing, probably because the scene is night. On the side of the house, there is this big, ancient looking tree, with a tire swing dangling from one of it's branches. It's the stupid tire wing that makes me hate the fucking painting the most.

When Mom and I first moved in with Joey, all those years ago, there was this tire swing in the backyard. It was my favorite thing in the world, mostly because it was all mine. Angie was too young to play with it while, Mom claimed she'd get motion sickness. Joey, sometimes, would swing on it, just for kicks and giggles, but other than that, it was all mine.

But after mom died, the day before I was to move in full time with Dad, Joey cut the swing down. He said the rope was rotted and he didn't want Angie getting hurt, and besides I was getting too old for it and was moving away anyways. I should've understood the angle Joey was coming from, but I didn't. And frankly, I still don't.

"Craig, I think your problems go deeper than your addiction. You have to open up though, in order to get better. You're young, you don't want to be caged here."

I wanted to scream DUH in her tiny face, but I didn't. I just closed my eyes and thought for a moment. Than I spoke.

"My mom and paternal Father are both dead." I didn't open eyes, I was speaking too bluntly, and I felt almost sick.

"Oh, Craig, I didn't know that. I'm so sorry."

Now, I look at her, wait, I glare at her. Making a fist with my hand at my side.

"Don't be, I'm over it. Didn't it say all that in that manila folder of mine?"

Dr. Mann shook her head no. I bet she's lying, doctors and important people always lie to make you feel better, to make you feel like you can relate to them when you really can't. She's probably rich and drives an energy efficient car, while I'm not allowed to access my funds or my sweet car.

Time is eating at my insides, like a tapeworm. I want this session to be over. I'm sick of Dr. Mann, and all her lies and question. She's looking at me again, shaking her head, an attempt to assure me that everything is okay. What the fuck? Nothing is okay!

"Can, I… leave yet?"

I ask, standing up. The couch creeks, but I hold in my laughter, biting my lip. She has a confused look on her face, but reluctantly nods her head. And as she does, I'll I can do is stare at the jiggling fat under her chin. Dr. Mann isn't a fat person or anything, but like most older people she hast that double-chin thing going on. Oh, I want to laugh so bad, but my teeth are jabbed into my bottom lip. So, I just stand there, looking like a self-cannibal or something.

She mumbles something about, calling an escort, because I'm that much of a hazard to myself. We're silent till the knocking on the door is heard. There's Forrest.

Since he has been here for a long time, he gets to escort people to and from their counselor meetings. He smiles, warmly and knowing. And I lever Dr. Mann's office without goodbye, full aware that I have another half hour left.

I wonder what Dr. Mann will do with this free, thirty minute break. I glance back into her office. She's closing the blinds. Ick.

Lunch is served at the same time, everyday. 11:35am. Forrest and I arrive early today, because we had nothing better to do. But, it's actually a good thing because then, there is U-G-L-Y girl. This beyond obese girl with, ironically enough, caramel color eyes and bland brown hair to her boulders, err, shoulders.

We don't know her name, but she always wears this shirt that says: "U-G-LY; you ain't got no alibi". When one looks like a female Hagrid (you know, the Harry Potter series), you should not deem anyone around you ugly.

We watch her take the plastic green tray up to the server for seconds. It's only 11:34. The server shakes her head no and U-G-L-Y girl puts her tray in the stack to be washes, the garbage checker not even batting an eyelash in her direction.

She walks out of the cafeteria, and I watch her exiting form, wondering, how? How does one lose themselves, and get swallowed into a world of food. Is it the same as my own addiction?

The girl drops something, and I jog over to what fell from her pocket.

"Hey, you dropped something!" I call, but she doesn't turn around, like she didn't hear me. I stuff the note that she dropped into my pocket. I'll give it to her later.

I walk back to Forrest; he's in the lunch line, having Salisbury steak splattered onto his tray.

"That's a huge bitch." He mumbles and I laugh with him, even though it was a pretty mean thing to say. I grab my own tray and opt for a turkey sandwich and some French fries. Yum.

Dr. Mann may have a double chin, but U-G-L-Y girl has a quadruple chin. I'm an evil basturd.

Our lunch table hosts the younger guys at Sandy Ridges. The circle table can sit six people, and I've only talked about three of them, myself included.

To my right, is Forrest. We've sort have become buds since my arrival. He's the only one I consider as a friend.

Then there's Blade Hartman. A badass kid that smoked one too many joints. He has a Mohawk and he thinks his shit doesn't stink and that he's cooler than everyone. We put him in his place, though.

Next to Blade is Bill, who is jotting stuff in his notebook. He's youngish, but crazy. One too many LSD trips.

Derek Bick sits next to Bill. Derek's a real bookworm, here because he tried to kill himself. Just as he was about jump off the latter he was on in his garage, noose around his neck, his father walked in and saved him.

On my left is Roy. I think he's a weird guy, he likes talking with an old English accent (think Shakespeare).

"What do you think about her?" Forrest asks, nudging me. I look up and see a new girl, I've never seen before. To be blunt, she's hot. Real hot.

Her eyes, though sunken in, are an amazing shade of blue. Her blonde hair choppy, and up to her ears. And she's walking with Mayson.

Three days filled with numerous, one sided conversations, her doing all the talking and me just listening, in the rec room with her, it doesn't surprise her when I call out her name.

"Mayson!!" She swings her new friend, to the direction of our table. Now, they're both standing by my chair and I turn to face them. Forrest quirks an eyebrow.

"Hey, what's up Craig?" Forrest laughs at Mayson's small lisp. I hit his knee under the table.

"Nothing much." I shrug, and poke a whole into the bun of my sandwich with my pinky.

Mayson seems to shudder a bit at the sight of three empty mayonnaise packets on my tray; I ignore it.

"Who's your friend, Mayssson?" Forrest asks, mocking Mayson's pronunciation of her own name. Mayson, looks at the ground, and I punch Forrest's knee under the table again, muttering 'asshole' under my breath.

"I'm Cara…" Holy shit, this Cara girl is looking right at me, licking her lips. What a fucking slut. Forrest is eating it up. Taking her hand into his and bringing it up to his lips to kiss.

"Well…" Forrest says releasing her hand. "Welcome to the Cuckoo's Nest."

Asshole.

Both the girls walk away. "Which one do you want to fuck?" Forrest asks.

That answer, if this would've been the real world, I'd have said Mayson. The shy, protective best friend girl. But here, for some reason, I said, "Cara…"

And Forrest raises his hand for a high five.

After lunch, I decide that I'll take the first step and call Ellie. To apologize, or say some shitty lie or something.

There is only one phone on the first floor, located in a small room between the two washrooms. I walk into the room and see that someone is already on the phone.

The U-G-L-Y girl.

Other than the prying video camera in the corner of the room, that is linked right to the front desk, we're alone.

I sit on the stiff, plastic, chair, waiting for my turn. I try to tune out her coversation, but I can't help but hear that she is crying.

"Mom, I don't want to be here anymore. I don't fit in….I know. But, I'll I try harder…Mommy…Yes, I know how old I am….nineteen. Okay…Bye… Love you?"

I can hear the dial tone from here. Her mom didn't say, 'love you' back. I feel bad for her. She turns to leaves and catches a glimpse of me for the first time, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

The fattest man I've ever seen was at the beach, when I was six. I couldn't help starring at him, as I watched him breath with one of those tube things. He was drinking slim fast, and watching his kids, who seemed older than me by one or two years build a sand castle. Mom caught me starring at him, and demanded to Dad that we go to another beach. We did. I wonder what happened to that man…

"Sorry…" She whispers, her voice delicate.

I give her a quizzical look. "Why are you apologizing?"

She shrugs her shoulders, and I pull the note she dropped out of my pocket.

"You dropped this, in the dinning hall." I hand it to her, and she smiles. She has pretty teeth.

"Thanks…"

"What's your name?"

"Angela."

I smile, "That's the name of my little sister, I miss her a lot."

Angela gives me a sad look, and plays with the beaded bracelet around her wrist. It looks like the kind little girls make, with the plastic, rainbow of colors beads. The kind with the big holes, so string slides right in through.

" I miss my little sister too."

I nod, "It was nice talking to you, but I have a phone call to make…"

"Okay…bye."

"Bye."

As soon as she exits, I dash to the phone, my hand shaking as I reach into my pocket for my wallet which contains my calling card.

So frantically am I digging in my wallet, my heart drops into my stomach when I pull out a wallet sized picture. From a wedding, along time ago.

How the hell did it get into my wallet?

I stare at the picture, mesmerized by how much she has change in ten years. Emma Nelson, my how you've grown. And I squint my eyes, picturing what she looks like now.

I forget who I was going to call, and end up dialing a number that could, most certainly cause all Hell to break loose.

I really am fucking mental.

And why are the threads so loose on my wallet?


End file.
